D.C. Experience 2008

I'm leaving on a jet plane tomorrow. Going to Washington, D.C. for a special project with work. I'll be keeping a blog. Check it out here.

Head Circus

It's been awhile. I've been busy adjusting to a new job and just haven't made time to post anything. That and I've been mostly in my own head lately--dealing with stuff more privately and less transparently.

I'm more or less settled in to the gig. Hopefully that will inspire a more regular schedule of postings, but I suppose time will tell that story.

Lately, I've got some junk doing acrobatics in the circus that is my head. Nothing terribly consequential really, just junk.

While life is a bit less than aces at the moment, things are pretty much going well. I've got a job. I've got a family. I've got some health. I've got an imagination. My sense of humor is still very much intact.

Oh, and I've got some good ideas for a few stories. Written stories, not photo stories. After all, even though my voice mail greeting still says photojournalist, I'm more a writer than a photographer these days.

Strip Mall

There is a strip mall behind the house where I grew up in a neighborhood made up of mostly original owners. My folks still live in that house and many, but certainly not all, of those neighbors have passed away in the past decade.

I remember being a kid and riding my bike around the corner to a discount bakery that sold Suzy-Q's, Ding Dongs and all other manner of sugar-loaded debauchery. It's long gone, but unfortunately my gut is still paying rent.

I remember getting my hairs cut at a legitimate barber shop by a friendly fellow named Augie. The shop is still open and on the occasion that I stop in for a little off the top, he asks if I'm there for my wedding haircut. I think by now he knows I'm not, but he asks. He talks about someday retiring, but he can't put down his scissors and clippers completely until he does the matrimonial hairdo he's promised me. Hopefully I'll still have hair at that point.

True to form, businesses have come and gone in the past twenty odd years and the face of the shopping center, much like that of the adjacent neighborhood, has changed too.

These days, for the most part, the strip mall has been transformed into a mega-church and that makes the scene I photographed in a window on the backside of the building that much more intriguing. And bizarre.

Perhaps they are praising His name. Or maybe vying for some beads from Ken and the gang.

Postmarks

I rarely write letters that depend upon a postage stamp and letter carrier for delivery.

E-mails and text messages, while decidedly less personal and more disposable, provide a quicker and more direct method for communicating. This blog is another counter to the handwritten note. The mass method of personal discourse is not going anywhere.

Honestly, I miss the permanence of a postmarked communique. Through the years, I have been on the receiving end of the occasional postcard from a friend or the love letter from a long since scorned former flame. Or the "look how great my life has become" Christmas card. I even sent a few.

I miss that exchange, even if I wasn't very good at the exchange part.

Some adage says that a person has to send letters to get them in return. Sounds completely logical to me. The sending and receiving is something I need to experience on a regular basis. I would like to soon find myself penning a strongly struck letter to someone. Perhaps I would include some photographic trinket to accompany the words or maybe I would let them stand on their own accord. Promptly depositing 41 cents of self-adhesive bus fare, I would send it on its journey with hopes for reciprocation. It would be amazing how the old way would become my new way.

Interested? Send me an address that does not include the "@" sign to this address that does: cl [at] christopherlawson [dot] com.

P.S. YIELD TO INCOMING SEMITRUCKS.

Josey Ann Peterson

(Obituary from Port Orchard (Wash.) Independent)

Josey Ann Peterson, 30, a resident of Portland, Ore., died May 28 in Portland. She was born on May 12, 1974, in Bremerton to Randall and Marion (Breiland) Peterson. She graduated from South Kitsap High School in 1992 and attended Lutheran Bible Institute in Issaquah. She was a co-manager for Blue Moon Camera and Machine in Portland. She enjoyed photography, family, animals and hiking. She was a Lutheran. She is survived by her sister Jamey Peterson of Port Orchard; maternal grandmother Anna Breiland and paternal grandmother Doris Peterson. Visitation was held on June 4 at Rill Chapel and will be held on Sunday, June 6, from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. at First Lutheran Church in Port Orchard prior to service. A funeral will be held at First Lutheran Church on June 6 at 3 p.m., followed by interment at Sunset Lane Memorial Park. Arrangements were under the direction of Rill Chapel’s Life Tribute Center. Memorial donations can be made to First Lutheran Church, 2483 Mitchell Rd. SE, Port Orchard, WA 98366. Please visit the online memorial at www.rill.com.

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my last photograph of Josey, circa December 2001

She was born on the same date - 57 years later - as my maternal grandfather.

I was not there. In fact, I don't necessarily remember the day that I first met Josey. I do, however, have a ton of fond memories that surround the days and nights the two of us spent together while she lived in Colorado. Man, did she ever live in Colorado

Josey convinced me of a lot of things.

She was there when I, filled with doubts and confusion about my talent, was plodding my way through college as a photojournalism major. She always told me that I would someday make it as a photojournalist. I started my first full-time photo gig at a newspaper one day before she took the train to photograph heaven with a Holga. (**I wanna see that contact sheet**)

A few years later, I have essentially made it. Still, I can't help thinking that greater pictures and richer stories are still somehow beyond me and my abilities. Maybe they are simply just ahead of me, in part, because she is above me.

She convinced me of a lot of things.

Her sense of fashion was definitely a defining part of her personality. In her purple Chuck Taylors and fishnet stockings, she often looked like a character in a vividly dark Tim Burton film. She liked Tim Burton and I loved her. She was the friend I never knew I needed before I truly needed her to calm my soul. I remember spending hours one night sitting on the front porch of her rented home. We talked about life, love, God and photography - all topics she seemed to know quite well. Remembering the spunk in her voice and laugh brings a funny smile to my face.

I visited her memorial site and found the picture that made me remember hearing this story about Josey after she moved to Portland to work at an eclectic little camera store. This is a classic case of the story likely paling in comparison to the reality.

She apparently walked into a thrift store - she loved thrift stores, dive bars and toy cameras - and walked out with a pair of purchased wings. She promptly boarded a public bus wearing her newfound flair and engaged just about every passenger in friendly conversation without any fear of judgment. It was probably amazing and was the kind of act for which Josey was known and cherished.

A lot of things.

Angels do exist. They wear fancy wings and fishnets, shoot a Diana camera and love unconditionally.

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Every Last Word

I purchased a book a few months ago that I finally started reading this weekend. Written by Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Jim Sheeler, "Obit" is a collection of narrative obituaries celebrating the extraordinary lives of ordinary folks.

As a journalist, I can think of no piece of editorial writing that carries more responsibility for truth than the final words penned in an obituary. Sheeler is clearly masterful in his ability to find great stories and craft words into sentences to form paragraphs that truly immortalize lives lived and then completed. I have only read six or seven pieces and every one is a small portrait painted with Sheeler's delicate and expressive stroke to celebrate a giant, although sometimes quiet, existence. Every one and everyone is important. It is amazing what lessons can be learned about life from writing born of death.

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